Comatose
by Ernil i Pheriannath
Summary: A continuation for the storyline 'toxic tea' from chapter 13 in the short stories in 'it takes John Watson to save your life.'. Sherlock is poisoned and John saves him, but it's only the beginning of his medical treatment.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I love this storyline so much I've decided to deviate and place it into a whole new works.**

 **I was actually going to write more before publishing but actually realise some of you are looking forward to it. So here we are. There will be more, life is busy so there may be a little wait but I promise more to come.**

 **Gifted to all my lovely followers and people who encourage me. Even after all this time. Thank you so much!**

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If anyone asked John would not own up to the fact that detective inspector Lestrade did have to practically carry him to the police car. By the time he managed it into the passenger seat he was shaking.

"Jesus mate. Are you sure you didn't ingest any of the stuff Sherlock did?"

John gulped back the rising vomit in his throat, the look of absolute terror behind his best friend's eyes etched into his vision was making him more than nauseated, a cold ice was gripping his chest with panic. Despite having taken Sherlock's breathing for him there was still every chance he could deteriorate, why hadn't he gone in the ambulance, why couldn't his legs just do as they were told for once and carry him.

"John?"

The doctor snapped out of his racing mind and glanced up to a very worried looking Lestrade.

"You alright? Do I need to get you checked over too?"

"Please Greg, just drive." John gritted his teeth to save his voice from wobbling anymore. "I need to be with him." He pulled the belstaff into his shoulders, appreciating its embrace and warmth.

"Understood."

Greg slammed his own door shut and swore lightly under his breath before pressing forwards and towards Barts.

The car ride was silent, save the sound of the police siren that the inspector had chosen to use. Not standard protocol for transporting civilians to the hospital but this wasn't exactly a standard scenario. The whirring noise of the car only served to heighten John's frayed and wretched nerves and by the time they pulled into the entrance bay by Barts he was shaking so violently that Greg himself wondered if the poor man really had been poisoned too after all.

The inspector offered a hand but John either didn't see it or ignored it and he staggered to his feet. Clearly determined to do this on his own volition he was already half way to the entrance before Greg could secure the car.

John wasn't sure what he was expecting to see when he entered the emergency room, his legs were shaking so much he was barely able to stand straight. What came to his vision though would likely haunt him for a long time to come.

The gurney containing his best friend's form was surrounded by a hype of activity, many of the medical team were trying to gently restrain his friend but struggling. From where he was situated John could see most of Sherlock's lithe form, stretched out on the bed and for half a second he was lost in the thought of how tall the detective actually was, his now bare feet over the end of the trolley. This thought through, was quickly replaced with the movement that was gripping his best friend's figure.

The seizures and convulsions were most definitely not under control. The first dose of lorazepam John had given on scene had clearly began wearing off.

"Why hasn't anyone given him more benzodiazepines?!" John spoke up. His voice must have carried quite some authority as almost all staff members looked up from their positions. The place seemed to silence save the movement of his friend's convulsing body on the trolley and his gurgled awful sounds from within his throat, a sure sign of some aspiration.

John bit his lip in both worry and some embarrassment, he knew the team knew what they were doing.

"His line is out doctor." One of the nurses pointed to the remains of John's handwork, now a bloodied bruised mess from where the cannula must have torn out.

What the hell had happened since Sherlock's departure in the ambulance?

John cursed inwardly. He should have ridden in the back with his friend so he could have kept an eye on things.

"Then give him some intramuscular or rectally for fuck sake." This time his voice did carry nothing but Captain Watson, there was no arguing with this tone.

The room seemed to kick back into life then and John pushed his way gently into the hype of activity. He was neither challenged or asked to leave and the medical team seemed to work around him as if he were invisible. His attention was now drawn to nothing but his friend's face.

Sherlock had been gently rolled onto his side, in a bid to keep his airway clear from any saliva which seemed to be flooding his mouth, a symptom of tetrodotoxin he remembered. But John cringed inwardly, as with each mechanical breath forced into his friend's lungs an echo of a deep seated crackle from his friend's airways sounded. This was a bit not good, but not something they could deal with right now.

Right now they needed to control the muscular spasms.

A suction tip was slipped between the detectives lips to remove more liquid. The terrible slurping and whirring made John's ears hurt, God knows how much he grated in Sherlock's own head.

This wasn't what upset the doctor the most though.

What was worse was the haunting terrified look in the detective's eyes. Although near fully paralysed, save the uncontrollable seizing the detectives eyes attempted to follow John as he finally came to stand beside the bed. His blue grey Iris's were swallowed up by dark dilated pupils, reddened sclera and deep creases around his lids, conveying nothing but misery.

John's brows knitted together in both pain and sorrow. His best friend was stripped partly of his clothes and at the total mercy of the medical professionals working on him. Sherlock Holmes was a proud man so what made this worse was he seemed to remain completely aware of what was going on around him. Conscious to the very real possibility that the toxin running through his veins may well just kill him. His dignity was all but stripped bare. His body betraying him at every chance, numb yet every muscle convulsing with relentless force. He was trapped, betrayed by his own transport as he would say.

But that was the murderers point wasn't it, to keep the man alive and aware of his existence right until his final breath.

John snapped.

"That bastard!" He grasped the bed rails so tight that not just his knuckles turned white but his entire hands.

"Sorry." He looked down to see Sherlock's gaze locked onto his and he almost felt his heart tear in two. "Jesus mate, I'm so sorry." He softened.

A single tear escaped the corner of the doctors eye without warning but he brushed it quickly aside.

This was not happening.

Somehow a small stall had appeared next to him and the doctor sat down, coming down to a better level with his friend.

"It's going to be okay." He said. Though he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or Sherlock. Placing a soft hand onto the detectives cheek in an unusual show of affection he inhaled deeply, swallowing past the lump suddenly in his throat.

"I promise."

John berated himself for promises but he didn't care.

"Might need a bit of time with this but..." he pointed to the endotracheal tube poking out of his friend's mouth, still secured in place.

This was the one most important piece of kit keeping his friend alive, keeping his lungs filled with oxygen and therefore that genius brain too.

"Breathings boring eh?" He attempted to joke but found it fell flat as soon as it left his lips.

Though happy he was alive, John wasn't actually sure that allowing his friend to remain conscious right now was the best idea. Sherlock's predicament was absolutely terrifying to say the least and the detective was mentally one of the strongest people John had ever known. But this was a whole level of psychological suffering, this was locked in syndrome with the added benefit of near death experience just as the icing on the cake. No one, not even the Great Sherlock Holmes would be able to come out of this without some form of mental scarring.

Sherlock's eyes seemed more distant now, a look that John knew well as a typical retreating gaze of entering his mind palace.

"Listen ok." He said finally, gently rubbing a thumb over his friend's prominent cheek bone. "I know you're doing your best to retreat out of here right now, you're lucky you've got a mind palace to do that. Just..."

He paused, carefully constructing his words.

"Just don't get lost in there okay?" He frowned, hoping he was being over cautious.

John had seen it though, war had hardened him to the possibility of issues arising from this sort of situation. He had seen strong, confident full grown young men in war, losing limbs or seeing friends slaughtered before them then going home an empty shell. Their minds riddled with amnesia and dissociative disorders and PTSD. If Sherlock made it out of this one in one piece physically. There was every chance he wouldn't make it out in one piece mentally.

It was several long slow minutes later that finally the drugs injected into the detectives muscle began to work. John watched with both anguish and worry as his friend's body finally began to relax again, his twitching slowed though didn't completely dissipate. The odd tremor ran through his hands and legs and his eyes dropped to slits.

"Doctor Watson?"

John tore his face from his friend's and looked up.

A senior, greying haired man stood before him. Lead consultant, many years experience, the pinched look in his brow though told him that he was concerned, John didn't need the detectives deductive skills to see that. But a concerned doctor was not what one wanted to see.

"Yes?" John finally answered.

"We're securing Mr Holmes a ICU bed right now, one has just become available last minute."

John dropped his head, this only meant that the previous occupant of the bed had likely died. ICU patients rarely made a miraculous surprise recovery and intensive care beds were few and far between. The seriousness of the situation was beginning to sink and it was making John nauseous and dizzy with panic.

"We're also in contact with the toxicology specialists at Guys and St Thomas's. One of the team should be over very soon. Mr Holmes seems to have caused quite a stir with them, clearly they don't encounter tetrodotoxin all that often."

"Fine." John swallowed back and tried to be the doctor, to be impartial and professional but his voice gave the emotion away. "What's the plan."

"The team are just going to place a central line into the subclavian vein, by then ICU space should be freed up and toxo should be here, we'll keep up with the lorazepam as needed if he starts to seize again but I'm hoping we have it under control more now."

"Are you not giving any other sedation?" John looked back to his best friend. He could see that beneath heavy lids Sherlock was still tracking them sluggishly. He may have been partly sedated but the detective was still well aware of his terrifying predicament, his attempts are retreating to his mind palace not so successful it seemed.

"He's sedated enough. Until we have the rest of the specialists opinions I don't want to overload him with drugs, his blood pressure is already dangerously lower than I would like to see it."

"You do know he's well aware of everything going on."

"If you say so Doctor Watson, but like I said, I can't give him anything else."

John ground his teeth together but held back his anger. No one ever quite grasped the concept of exactly how extraordinary Sherlock Holmes truly was. Unfortunately in situations like this without John or even Mycroft's input it often worked to his disadvantage.

The blogger didn't know why he didn't push the doctors further, in hindsight he wished he did, but for now he set his mission at pacifying his best friend whilst the doctors began to prepare him for a catheter placement into his shoulder. John did the only thing he knew that would keep him calm and grounded in this terrible scenario. He gave him data.

Ever step of the way John began to repeat to himself the procedure for placing the long stay catheter into Sherlock's vein.

"They're just going to place a long stay cannula into your subclavian vein, just under your collar bone, you need it because you're probably going to need fluids and blood products let alone the antibiotics your going to need for your lungs. You probably know all this anyway, but I'm going to talk you through it anyway."

John wondered if giving too much data was such a good idea, but he knew Sherlock's ways, and knew too well that even if he withheld information the detective would know it soon enough.

"They're just ultrasounding the area now to check the placement of the needle and then numbing it, though right now I'm not exactly sure what you can feel."

John watched the doctors with a keen medical eye, remembering the first time he had placed one of these lines many many years ago as a junior doctor, in this very same hospital and department. It was like déjà vu, yet here he was watching another doctor place it instead, judging each and every step.

"They're swabbing the area with disinfectant first and then they'll place a sterile drape, it might cover your head a bit, but I'm right here alright."

Thankfully Sherlock's tube meant that the blue drape did no rest on his face entirely. John knew too well how his friend would be feeling under the claustrophobic material and he gently used one hand to keep it held up a little more. With a second hand he placed his fingers on his friend's radial pulse in both comfort and with doctorly concern.

"At a 45 degree angle a needle is advanced under the skin directing towards the clavicle, once blood is seen in the hub then advancement is stopped."

John could see the doctors eying him with annoyance but he didn't care. He hoped this was at least helping his friend even just a little. It was worth upsetting the medical team to keep his friend calm.

"A guide wire is placed down the needle and into your cranial vena cava. We need to watch your pulse and ECG to make sure it's not entering your heart, believe it or to you do have one of those." The doctor half smiled, concentrating on Sherlock's pulse under his fingers and glancing at the screen above.

"Once in the right place the needle is removed and a small incision is made in the skin before a dilator is introduced into the vein."

Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly and he looked to his friend trustingly.

"Alright?" John frowned, "nearly done ok, I don't know what an earth you can feel of any of this but I imagine you can feel some of it."

The detective only blinked slowly in return, his eyes returning to their drug addled heavy lidded state.

"Once the dilator is out the main cannula is placed in and wire removed and flushed."

Sherlock's eyes slide closed.

"Sherlock?" John's heart jumped in alarm. "Sherlock?"

The blogger looked up at the monitors.

"His blood pressure is dropping, get fluids into the line, I need vasopressin and digoxin please." The lead consultant began to bark orders to the staff.

Before the new intravenous line had even been stitched into place a nurse quickly connected a line of fluids, running it directly into Sherlock's body.

"Don't be a cock now. Do you hear me!" John continued to speak to his friend, even though it was clear the detective had lost consciousness now.

The alarms on the monitors began to wail, flashing angrily as the numbers began to drop dangerously low.

"Quickly please." The lead doctor hurried his team. "I want those drugs in now please."

John bit his lip, hard. Watching the numbers on the screen as they dipped. There was no wonder the detective had lost consciousness, pressures this low were dangerous.

"Jesus Sherlock. Come on mate." He grasped his friend's wrist again, gripping tightly and feeling the now weak pulse there.

Realising the detective was literally running the line between life and full out cardiovascular failure the senior consultant turned his attention to John.

"Doctor Watson, you might want to step out..."

"I'm not leaving." John growled in a low and dangerous voice, his hand gripping tighter. "Not a chance. I know what's happening, and I know what could happen but I'm not leaving his side."

Only a nod answered him and the team continued to work, alarms sending John's nerves to shreds. He buried his face into the bedside and prayed. He was no religious man, but he still did, praying to a higher being that this was not happening, that the drugs would work. That Sherlock would live.

"Please God Sherlock, don't do this..."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** **Thank you for everyone's continued support, despite me being not here much. Life's full of everything right now with little me time, so sorry. I have some time off at Xmas, so fingers crossed. This chapter is mostly linking through but some nice Greg and John interaction. Thanks again.**

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Chapter 2

"Please God Sherlock, don't do this...

The monitors and machinery wailed loudly, so much so that John felt flooded with emotion and fear and his vision blurred out. And it was then he felt two strong hands on his shoulders.

"Hey." The familiar sound of Lestrade's voice behind him. "It's alright mate."

Clearly John's internal panic was becoming visible externally. He wasn't sure where Greg had been for the last 10 minutes but it didn't matter, the inspector was here now and obviously concerned for his welfare.

"I..." John's voice broke, as did his emotional barriers. "Shit."

The pulse was whooshing in his ears and the thudding was deafening from his chest, almost louder than the medical monitors. His vision was now almost completely whited out into nothing, he was losing it.

"Sherl..." he tried to speak, but lost all ability. He lost himself for a moment before the inspectors voice filtered back into his mind.

"It's okay." Greg was now on his haunches, crouching by the blogger, recognising the man's impending meltdown any minute. "John look at me."

"He's dying..." John's voice wobbled and failed again, "he's..."

"I don't think so mate."

"Wha..."

"Look at me John." Lestrade said a little more firmly. The inspector pulled the small stall around to face him, though the doctor wasn't sure how he managed to.

"John!"

John's wild and near unseeing eyes finally focused on detective inspector Lestrade.

"Listen. Whatever was happening I don't know, but whatever they've done Sherlock seems to be stable."

The doctors eyes cracked open and he managed to take in Sherlock before him. The monitors had settled down and his friend was still out but looked relaxed now. Compared to the continued twitching only minutes earlier. How long had he just been out?

"You might need to let go of his hand though John, not only do I think he is losing blood supply to the fingers but I think the team are getting ready to move him." Lestrade said.

John didn't even realise until he concentrated on his right hand, staring at the appendage as if it were from another. It was clamped solid onto the detectives hand, both his and his best friend's flesh were white from the pressure, the seizing pain from his cramped muscles was suddenly apparent. John wasn't sure he could even prize his fingers back at this rate.

"Just breath John. Take it easy."

"What? I am breathing?"

"If holding your breath is breathing then sure." Greg shook his head. "Just nice slow inhale alright, you need to let him go, they've got to get him to ICU."

The doctor frowned. What the hell was Lestrade on about?

But he gave in.

Closing his eyes he inhaled slowly, but as he did a mirage of images flashed into his darkened eyes, war, blood, gunfire... his heart thundered, pulse rising once again.

"John." Lestrade suddenly grounded him. "Easy."

"That's it, in... and out. Nice slowly now."

His head was aching, what was going on?

When did he start to feel all this?

Headache, muscle cramps, nausea, dear God the nausea... he swallowed hard to push the rising bile in his throat back down. He recognised all of it now. PTSD was gripping him with a vengeance.

"You gotta let go now mate." Greg said softly. "Honestly, otherwise I think they might start to consider surgically removing you."

"Christ." John yelped, releasing his hand and then clutching it into himself as it throbbed in agony.

"Well done." Lestrade grasped his upper arms and tried to get him to focus. "Just sit back okay, we're just going to get you checked over."

"No!" The doctor tensed, suddenly noticing as Sherlock's gurney begin to drift away from him and out the cubicle. "I need to..."

"Nope." Greg replied before another word was uttered. "You are sitting right here until we can check you over, then you can be with him. But right now John, honestly, I don't think you being with him is a good idea. Let them do their job okay?"

John nearly hit the deck, his muscles gave out and he near fell into the detective inspector.

"Right." Lestrade said firmly. "Into the chair for me."

John was surprisingly compliant and allowed his friend to guide him off the small stool and into a waiting wheelchair next to it which had mysteriously appeared from nowhere.

"Fucking Jesus Christ." The doctors head lolled back and he inhaled deeply with his eyes fixed on the tiled ceiling. "I'll be okay in a minute, just give me a sec." he said breathlessly.

"Sure." Greg replied cynically. "You looked like a bloody ghost and for a moment there I wondered if you were actually breathing at all. I think you need more than a sec."

"I'm trained to deal with these situations Greg, I'm not an invalid." He growled.

"Not with Sherlock Holmes you're not. He's a whole different level of emotional turmoil." The inspector smiled sadly, pausing.

"Just please John, take a bloody moment would you. Not half an hour ago you were keeping your best friend alive whilst trapped in a lift. I think you owe yourself a moment for your brain to catch up with the action."

John waved off the comment, still trying to catch his breath that seemed to have been lost. He gritted his teeth, bracing his shaking arms on the side of the wheelchair he tried to rise.

And failed.

His knees wobbled and he allowed himself to sit back into the chair with the look of embarrassment.

"Take it easy, you're not super human mate, just please, give yourself a break."

Before John Watson had a moment to protest a nurse came into view, wheeling a small trolley with a monitor and equipment attached. She quickly turned the screen on and popped the pulse oximetry probe onto the doctors finger before he had refused any aid.

"I'm really fine..."

The clearly well seasoned nurse shot John a look which made him close his mouth and protest no more.

"Fine enough that your blood pressure is through the roof Doctor Watson." She hummed.

Greg's eyebrows rose at the numbers, he was no medical man but knew they were high. He was already in trouble with his own GP about his own elevated blood pressure. Something about a high stress job, alcohol consumption, smoking and long term fatigue. He rarely listened.

"And your certain you didn't ingest any of the poison?" The nurse asked.

"Certain." John replied.

"I need you to lay down for 20 minutes for me." She pointed to a nearby cubicle. "Do you have a headache or any lightheadedness, any chest pain?"

"None."

"Like all doctors, Mr Watson, you're a terrible lier and a terrible patient." She removed the cuff from his arm and pointed again. "Bed, now please."

John tried to rise again but his legs shook and he looked sheepishly to his friend and nurse.

With a quirk of the brow the woman pushed him forwards in the chair, into the cubicle and next to the waiting gurney. And after what seemed like absolutely forever he managed it, pushing himself out the wheelchair and onto the clean white sheets of the hospital bed.

"I'm not happy with your vitals right now so I suggest you sit tight until I am. If they don't improve then I will have the doctor look you over and give you something for your hypertension. For now I want you to sip some water an rest, otherwise I won't allow you to see Mr Holmes anytime soon."

This seemed to seal it for John, not being by his best friend's side was out of the question.

"Well that told you." Greg smirked as the nurse left for other duties.

The doctor didn't answer. He sat back up against the raised bed with a long slow sigh. The pounding in his head was continuing, despite actually feeling less like he would drop any minute.

"I've never seen anything like that you know?"

"What?" John looked to the inspector.

"Like the stuff you did back there, it was..." he shook his head.

"I'm a doctor Greg."

"Yeah. A bloody good one by the looks of it."

There was a long an awkward pause.

"Listen." Greg diverted his gaze to across the room, his body language slightly uncomfortable, this brought the doctors attention a little more sharply to him. Lestrade didn't get awkward about much.

"Before you arrived, Sherlock was, well... different."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I would spend most of my weeks either in A&E with him or trying to convince the man he needed medical attention." Greg rubbed a hand across his face.

"That's no surprise, Sherlock isn't exactly one for self preservation."

"No." Lestrade cried. "He was a mess." He paused again, clearly shaken by his own thoughts. "I mean, he solved crimes and everything, but." He shook his head, "the drugs, they messed him up big time John."

"Why are you telling me this now?" An edge of anger seeped in.

"Because... John." Lestrade sighed. "Because you need to look after yourself." The inspector looked him in the eye now. "Because he needs you John. He may not show it, but he really does."

John gave a forced laugh. "I met him, what? A year ago now."

"And he'd be dead if you hadn't."

The doctor only frowned, leaning back to stare at the bare ceiling again.

"I need to see him."

"No."

"Your not my keeper Lestrade."

"No, but I was practically Sherlock's for years so if you think you're a handful you can think again."

The doctor sat up, when suddenly the room tilted on it axis and he grasped the edge of the bed with white knuckles. Nausea swam up his abdomen and into his stomach like an internal fire raging.

"You're one stubborn bastard aren't you." Lestrade was up and forcing the man's shoulders back so he rest back into the bed. "How an Earth do the pair of you live together?"

"Mrs H." John gulped back his vile tasting stomach acid which had managed to bubble up into the back of his mouth.

"Ah, yes, that poor old women, she'll have a heart attack at this rate."

The doctor silenced.

"Sorry." Greg apologised, sitting back, "I'm supposed to be keeping you calm not stressing you out and giving your heart a run for its money."

"Sherlock does that just enough." John blew out a breath in an attempt to calm himself. "I'm fine."

"Nice try." The inspector patted his arm, "perhaps when you're less coloured like the bloody white wash walls I'll take you more seriously."

John ground his teeth together. "I need to see him."

"I know."

"I need to be by his side, even if there is nothing I can do." He attempted to rise again but quickly gave in. "I have to get to ICU, right now."

"Right now, if you don't get yourself under control, they're going to end up sedating you just to keep you calm." An authoritative reply.

"Like hell they will."

"John."

Something on the edge of Lestrade's voice made him stop another attempt at moving. With a final huff he lay back, the whooshing of his pulse thundering in his ears. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps he did need to calm down.

"Thank you." After some minutes passed the inspector said.

"I'm an army doctor Greg I can deal with this."

"I know. But your no use to him like this, just do as they ask and rest alright. I think you've done enough for him already." Lestrade turned to look around the room. He was in need of caffeine or a cigarette, the signs quite clear, it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to tell that.

Greg rose from his seat. "Don't you even think about moving, I'll be right back." He pointed.

John resigned himself to the bed, trying with every effort to not think about his friend. About his friend's lifeless limp body. About it being aralysed. About it dying.

Stop.

John felt his breath hitching.

He needed to calm down. Otherwise he wouldn't never get out of here.

"Tea?" Lestrade was back already, had he just zoned out again. The inspectors hand was holding out a styrofoam cup in his direction.

"Greg, I'm not sure caffeine is such a good idea right now?"

Lestrade looked into the cup and scrunched his nose. "Well it is from the machine around the corner, I'm not sure how much tea is actually in it."

John sniggered, taking the cup. "True."

"You don't have a true high blood pressure John, your the fittest man I know, when chasing criminals with his highness you have to be."

The doctor only smiled, sipping the warm drink, it wasn't as bad as he expected and Greg had added a generous helping of sugar too, probably wise.

"Unlike me." Lestrade patted his belly. "I gave up my PC work too long ago, chasing down the car jackers and robbers. Too many doughnuts and desk work these days." He took a long gulp of his own drink and grimaced at the bitter taste.

"What did you mean?" John finally asked.

"What?"

"What did you mean when you said he would be dead if I weren't here?" He sat up in the bed, feeling his head clearing a little. Tea... it solved everything.

Lestrade paused, considering weather it were a good idea to continue, but he knew John would only persist. He composed his breath and took another swig of coffee.

"About a month before he met you at Bart's I went by his old flat in Montague Street, it had been a dry period, very few cases and I knew he would be stewing in his flat in one of his moods."

"You mean in one of his depressive periods."

"I suppose you could call them that. He's always been one or the other, erratic or non syllabic." Lestrade smiled sadly.

"What happened?" John pressed on.

Greg swallowed, shaking his head sadly. "He was... barely alive."

"What?" The doctor sat near bolt upright. "Had he been attacked?"

"Attacking himself more like." A shadow passed across the inspectors face. "I told you John, he was a mess."

A pause.

"Not a month earlier I held him as he took a seizure outside a club were we had been investigating a murder. Too much cocaine and stimulation, I don't know how I managed to keep half of it from the team and keep my job, but I suspect his brother had something to do with it."

"Christ."

"His OD at his flat was worse though. I called in an ambulance but but before they arrived he had already stopped breathing. His brother arrived soon after and he was carted off to some sort of private hospital. I didn't see him for over a week, I honestly thought he might have died that night. When finally Mycroft called me to tell me he was moving to Baker Street, that Mrs Hudson was set to keep an eye on him. He asked if I would move in with him to help out, but I couldn't." Greg looked up sheepishly.

"I don't blame you." John cracked a half smile before it faded into a sad grimace. "I didn't realise quite how serious his drug problem was."

"Pretty certain he hasn't touched a thing since you moved in you know."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh I'm sure." Lestrade downed the last mouthful of coffee. "Not to mention Mycroft has that flat wired within an inch of its life. If he takes a thing Mycroft would be over there in a flash. I think there was some sort of compromise of rehab again or Baker Street."

John felt slightly uncomfortable at this thought, could the British government at least leave him alone. Did he have cameras in the bathroom? What about his private laptop? He shuddered, shaking off the thoughts.

"How are you feeling Doctor Watson?" The friendly nurse appeared then, wheeling the familiar monitor trolley. "You're looking a bit more healthy coloured now." She commented.

"Just needed a good brew." John held his empty cup out.

"Not likely." She took the rubbish. "I swear that machine dispenses dishwater. Next time you want a cuppa, there's some proper stuff at the nurses station, just ask."

"Thanks."

She fed the blood pressure cuff onto John's arm and clipped the pulse oximetry probe onto his middle finger. The machine whirred, numbers counting down on the monitor. The nurse pulled out a notebook and began jotting down readings.

"Much better." She smiled, "blood pressure just about within normal limits and your heart rate is coming down.

"Then can I go?" The bloggers feet were already over the edge of the bed, the small levels of caffeine in his tea had clearly chased away any current exhaustion.

She eyed him cautiously. "You can go Doctor." She released the cuff from his arm. "But I will be by ICU to do another set of obs in an hour or so. So you best behave."

John nodded silently, there was no arguing with a stern nurse. He pushed off the bed, happy to find his legs a little more sturdy than earlier. He needed to get to ICU, he needed to be by his friend's side.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"ICU." The nurse folded her clipboard away and pointed down the corridor. "To the end, turn right and down to the end, the team down there will escort you to the relevant room. Take it slowly doctor, I don't want to be picking you back up off the floor." She glared.

No arguing with that face, John knew his place with the nurses well enough as a doctor, let alone patient. He tested his feet slowly. A wobble but he was much more steady.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked, still looking worried.

John didn't trust his voice and simply nodded slightly, appreciative of Greg's support as he made his way down the corridor. The inspector stayed close, too close for comfort in the normal sense but there just in case the doctors legs faltered.

They didn't.

It took an age but finally John and Lestrade were by the door of the ICU room, they didn't need direction to the room, it seemed to be the only one busy with staff. Inside was a bustle of activity, and John felt himself beginning to panic again. No, this was normal, John thought, if they were still settling the detective it would take a bit of time to set all the infusions, monitors and equipment up.

"Alright?" Lestrade asked again and the doctor could hear more emotion bubbling into the inspectors voice.

"Fine." He waved off the question, slowly stepping into the room.

"Doctor Watson." A nurse who was busy connecting Sherlock's ECG lines beckoned him over to a chair, already set by the bed.

"Thank you." John managed it to the chair and was thankful for it being more comfortable than the stool he had perched on earlier. He watched the nurses connecting and setting up his friends lines and monitors.

"We're almost done, the doctor will be by soon to give you an update." The nurse who had offered him the seat said as she rearranged the detectives sheets so that it covered him a little more.

John looked over the bed briefly, taking in the tubes and lines which were endlessly travelling in and out of his best friend's body at so many points. Sherlock looked much smaller than his usual reputation proceeded, it seem to be a common joke about his tall physique. But he didn't look tall now, his body was swallowed up by the bedding and medical equipment. John almost felt a little at ease at the constant sound of the detectives heart beat from the monitor, though still a little slow. This sound coupled with the regular clicking of the ventilator brought John back to his days working in Bart's emergency department. The place had changed since those days and the ICU department seemed to have undergone a bit of a renovation.

"Bloody Christ." Lestrade brought him out of his thoughts and he looked up to see the inspector bracing himself on the end of the bed frame.

"This is..." Greg pointed to the kit around the room but didn't finish his sentence, he seemed to have paled somewhat.

For once that evening John then felt more calm than Lestrade .

"Standard procedure when someone needs life support." The blogger said. "At least he's in the right place now." He exhaled, a wash of adrenaline seemed to leave him.

"I've seen people on life support, just...I suppose, doesn't really hit home until you see someone you care about in the bed." Greg said. "I mean, I've seen him in a state, but never... like this." He pointed.

John didn't answer, he simply looked to his feet, unsure what to say.

"I need to check in with the team." Greg finally broke the awkward silence looking at his phone and realising he had missed several calls from Donavan and one from the back at the station. "Will you be okay for a bit?" He looked sheepish.

"I'll be fine, the docs will be in shortly and I can get an idea of what the plan is, they don't seem to be in such a hurry now, which generally in this situation means he's stable. For now." He added.

"Sure?"

"I'm okay Greg, honestly." He sounded much more convincing than earlier.

"I'm going to need to take a statement at some point."

"Sorry." The inspector added. "You know I have to."

"I'm not going anywhere tonight." John didn't look up this time.

"Call me." Lestrade said, "if anything changes, if you need anything. Promise me John, I won't be long."

"Thank you." He smiled sadly.

The inspector slipped out quietly, leaving John alone with his best friend and it was only a few minutes later when the familiar doctor entered the room with a slightly younger lady who was wearing a scrub top over her normal clothes. Specialist, John deduced, either not at work or not doing clinical work right now and was called in for advice.

"Doctor Watson." The senior consultant said, John finally read his badge, Doctor Matthews, senior critical care consultant.

"This is Doctor Malone."

John stood up, more out of politeness and shook the women's hand. She was taller than John, with a pair of petit glasses on her face and her blond hair pulled back in a high set bun. She looked like the typical academic type. Her small handbag was stuffed with papers and work and her shoes were not just heels but looked like going out shoes, barely a mark on them, clearly not at work when called then.

"Doctor Malone is one of the clinicians from Guys and St Thomas toxicology services."

"So sorry to spoil your evening out." John replied.

The doctor smiled slightly, "how did you know?"

"One thing about hanging around this one, it's taught me a lot about observing." He grinned at her, she really was rather attractive when he looked.

"It's not a problem." She said. "Not often we hear about tetrodotoxin poisoning, I've also messaged a good friend at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. He did a dissertation on the subject and would be very interested in Mr Holmes case. I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all." John remembered those days of being enthusiastic about work, the moment a new or unseen presentation came in or a new procedure caused a sort of excitement amongst the team, in a morbid sort of way, but he understood. His time in the British army seemed to have knocked this out of him, too busy trying to preserve life on the front line to worry about new research.

"Sherlock's condition seems to have stabilised at the moment but we're still worried about his bradycardia and arrhythmia." Doctor Matthews began. "We ran him quickly through the CT and he has some aspiration pneumonia already, unfortunately, so we've started intravenous antibiotics. The convulsions and tremors seemed to be under control with the lorazepam for now but I want to start phenobarbital soon as it's better longer term, but we need to work out the full plan with Doctor Malone before deciding on drugs. I thought you might wish to be involved in this discussion."

"I appreciate it, but my knowledge on this sort of thing is not like trauma work is."

"Still worth your input." Doctor Malone said smiling again. "How long ago did he ingest the toxin?"

"At least 90 minutes... " John looked at his watch. "Or not?" He frowned. "How long have we been here?"

"It doesn't matter." The toxicologist said, "if he had ingested less than 60 minutes ago we might want to think about gastric lavage and charcoal but it's too late now, he would have absorbed all the toxin into his bloodstream by now."

John was partly thankful, he wasn't sure his own stomach would be able to take watching or worse smelling his friend's stomach being pumped and emptied of its contents. It was not a procedure pleasant for any involved. He was, for once, happy that his friend was unconscious.

"We should start dialysis though, its generally indicated in these cases, especially as Mr Holmes is suffering grade 4 poisoning which is the most severe. The toxin doesn't seem to be kind on the kidneys and although he is a young healthy man it would be foolish not to right now."

"Is there any kind of antidote or antibody?" John asked.

"Not that I know of in this country." Doctor Malone replied, "it's not proven to work 100% even if used. I would perhaps suggest Neostigmine, it's supposed to help with the respiratory failure."

"But it causes bradycardia." The consultant suggested. "I wouldn't be happy with its use with his heart rate at 40 as it is."

"We would use it with atropine or similar to speed it up."

"Not sure rocking the boat is a good idea with that one." Doctor Matthews said. "I'll page the team to get a dialysis machine down here and look into his cardiac function. The brachycardia concerns me though, but his pressures are just holding for now, the nurses are going to place an arterial line in so we can monitor his blood pressures more accurately."

"What's the long term outlook?" The blogger swallowed thickly. He didn't really want to consider it right now, seeing as they had only just stabilised the detective.

"If he doesn't fall into a coma in the first 24 hours he has a good chance at a full recovery." The specialist said.

John laughed nervously, "if he doesn't fall into a coma?" He composed himself, "and how do we know he won't if we have him sedated already."

"Sedation will not push him into a coma Doctor Watson, for the most part the most important treatment for these patients is aggressive respiratory support, we can't have him intubated and not sedated."

They were right, he knew, but it didn't help. He exhaled loudly and sat back into the seat. "What are you keeping him under with?" He asked.

"Dexmedetomadine and the lorazepam, but we'll switch to phenobarbital once we've got everything sorted."

John only nodded, despite feeling calmer than earlier the prospect of a coma sent a new bolt of adrenaline rush back into him. But he needed to stay composed, there was no point in losing it now, Sherlock needed him.

The two doctors drifted off, still in deep hushed conversation but clearly having worked out the main plan for the detectives treatment.

John watched Sherlock for some minutes, the ventilator rising his chest and allowing it to fall naturally, doing the job his paralysed diaphragm could no longer do. It was then he noticed a small stain of red on his friend's cheek, clearly from his earlier injury of biting his tongue. John knew that nurses and patient carers didn't get time to clean the patients in the emergency department initially, preserving life was more important. Yet still he seemed compelled to do the job himself and after retrieving a small kidney dish with warm water and swabs he set to cleaning off the blemishes and blood stains from his best friend's skin. From around the central cannula, his arms and gently around his already dried and still blood stained lips.

Sherlock's skin was pale, more so than his usual pallid complexion and it only made his bruises stand more. The marbled purple surrounded areas where access to veins had proved difficult, the worse being the back of his hand were John had placed the first catheter, it was a swollen bloom of blood under the skin. John had never got this close to his friends body before, let alone his skin laid bare like this. For a moment a rush of red embarrassment filled his cheeks as he felt he was actually crossing some sort of line of privacy. But this was Sherlock, the man who cared little about emotion let alone privacy. He gently pulled around the hospital tag and noted the name on it.

'W.S. .' Was all it read. No date of birth or patient number. John frowned, what was his friend's actual name, since S did not seem to be the first initial.

"Hello." A voice brought the doctors attention up to a nurse standing on the other side of the bed.

"Sorry." John apologised, the red creeping into his cheeks again.

"It's okay." She replied. "My name is Anne, I'm one of the ICU nurses, I'm just here to put Mr Holmes arterial line in, please do carry on."

The blogger only nodded, leaving her to do a she needed, setting up a small trolling and then beginning to position and scrub Sherlock's inner right wrist. John finished cleaning up his friend's opposite arm but stopped dead for a moment. They were barely visible below some of the bruising but the scarring was undeniable, old and healed track marks.

He turned his back, inhaling deeply.

It was as if the marred skin actually confirmed the stories. Sherlock had told him himself, even Lestrade not an hour ago but still he seemed to be in some sort of denial.

"Are you okay?" The nurse behind him queried.

"Fine." John replied a little too quickly, running a hand down his face. He looked to the monitors for a second and suddenly realised Sherlock's slow 40 beats a minute heart rate had jumped to a round 100.

John turned to see the nurse slowly advancing the cannula into the artery and he bend forward over his friend's face. "Sherlock?"

Sluggish eyelids rolled back to reveal grey green Iris's beneath swallowed by still dilated pupils.

"Shit." The doctor cried. "Sherlock can you hear me?"

The detectives listless eyes rolled back and lids closed again.

"Anne get the consultant would you?" John turned back to the nurse who was now securing the line with tape and bandage.

"I don't think he's getting enough sedation."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you all for your continued support and followers. Thann you all so much!**

* * *

Chapter 4

 _Sherlock stood, with the look of both perplexity and panic in his eyes. A strong and cold gust of wind whipped violently through the corridor, throwing up papers and books and crime scene reports. All the work he had done in the past years now a mass of confusion. And in the middle of it all stood Molly Hooper._

 _She had her hands on her hips and her white lab coat stood out against the dulled interior. "What are you doing here?" She exclaimed, pouting her lips and shaking her head._

 _The detective tried to speak._

 _"Don't bother talking, you can't." She said matter of factly._

 _Sherlock frowned._

 _"Not only are you intubated but your vocal chords are paralysed, and your diaphragm for that matter, so there's no point in trying."_

 _But tried none the less, his mouth didn't even feel like it was moving, and his throat was dry and sore, yet he couldn't cough to clear it. He motioned to the room questioningly._

 _"Well this is the mess you've made, you can't exactly blame me for it. You probably should head to the basement, but then again, they do need you out there."_

 _He cocked it head._

 _"Oh yeah, you don't remember do you. Last thing you remember is collapsing in the lift, shame really, he put a lot of effort into keeping you alive. It might do you good to remember."_

 _Molly moved forward. "You need to remember, before this place comes down."_

 _Sherlock stepped towards her but she pushed him, not hard, yet still he went reeling backwards. Colliding with a bed._

 _That wasn't there before?_

 _"No point laying there brother dear, you'll be no use to anyone like that." Mycroft stood over him with his usual disappointed brother look. "Remembering is only the first step, the second part is finding them. God knows why you never see them here I fail to understand, but then you always were a puzzle to the so called professionals. How you have the ability to lock these things away I do not know but I suppose it is wise to. Red beard can wait all the same."_

 _He tried to speak again, but this only heightened the discomfort in his throat. Mycroft was not making any sense, why did everyone have to speak in riddles._

 _"Hurry up brother, your palace seems to have a bit of a leak by the looks of it."_

 _Sherlock pulled himself up and his feet, which seemed to be bare. They connected with ice cold water, the floor was flooded. He stumbled forward and used a pillar to hold himself upright, he was feeling rather strange to say the least, vision doubling slightly._

 _"He doesn't look so good." Anderson this time, and Sherlock shot him daggers._

 _"Maybe still suffering the after effects of the TTX." Molly pointed and the detective pulled his hands up to look at them, the were both shaking violently. "Though haven't we been here before?"_

 _"No Ms Hooper that was the drugs that time, self indulgence. My brother was a little overzealous with the cocaine. This however is not self inflicted." Mycroft pointed with his umbrella. "Well, unless you count the fact he missed that the tea was spiked with poison. Too slow, dear brother, your slipping"_

 _Sherlock reached for Mycroft, with an angry swing of his arm but only ended up on his knees, the cold water now soaking into his trousers. He shivered violently._

 _"Stop being a martyr and wake up." Mycroft exclaimed, "you just need to remember."_

 _Remember what! Sherlock fisted his hands angrily. How could remember when he didn't know what he needed to remember._

 _Suddenly a photograph drifted by on the current and he snatched it into his shaking grasp._

 _It looked like an old Polaroid film, and like someone had taken a picture by accident. It was an obscure angle, looking upwards into a small silver boxed room, a metal implement part in the frame and the edges of fingers grasping it._

 _Think! He tried, yet nothing was familiar, nothing made sense._

 _He wanted to scream but he remained silent and screwing the film up he dumped it back into the cold torrent, watching it wash away and down the long endless corridor._

 _"Come on Sherlock, do you really want to be stuck here forever?" Molly was before him again. "Why don't you try in there?" She pointed to a set of metal double doors, just a few steps away. They hadn't been there before._

 _Sherlock's legs wobbled as she stood and he grappled with the pillar to remain upright, his vision darkening slightly._

 _"Do you really think he can manage? Don't you think we should help him?" The detective was surprised to hear Anderson actually offering the idea of aid._

 _"No one can help my brother but himself." Mycroft said but Sherlock could not see him._

 _The detective stumbled forward and toward the gun metal grey doors, now they seemed twice the size that they were, ominous and oppressive in the room. The padlock on the front held chains across the two handles, stopping entry. He reached for the lock, almost losing the strength in his knees, he sagged and sunk back into the waters below. Why was it so hard to even walk right now._

 _A small pin appeared in his shaking hand and he reached up to pull the padlock towards him. Picking the lock would not be so easy when your hands are trembling so violently, he near lost the small implement in the darkening waters._

 _Several more photographs floated by and he caught sight of the same silver room, and then a flash of blue eyes looking at him. He fell back, the sight bringing him a jolt of pain in his chest._

 _Think!_

 _He collected three more photos as they rushed passed and examined them._

 _One was ceiling, white washed and clinical, a rail of blue curtain attached to it. Okay, this made more sense, a hospital ceiling. But why?_

 _The second, was Baker Street, his chair empty, and a second one empty too._

 _The third was blurred, so much so he could barely make out anything on the film, but there was something, the face of a person, leaning into the frame. Something familiar yet still so unfamiliar._

 _"Looks like your drowning Sherlock." A sing song of Irish lilt echoed suddenly and he then realised the water was now half was up his chest. Either from the cold water or the sound of Moriarty's voice, a blade of ice cold pain shot through his chest it near paralysed him. Though, didn't Molly say he was already paralysed?_

 _No time to wonder. His shaking hands pulled up to the door again and he continued to try and pick the lock with difficultly. It didn't budge. Why couldn't he do it?_

 _A blinding light then dazzled his vision and he rolled back in shock against it._

 _"Oh Sherlock, come on." Moriarty whined._

 _The detective stood shakily, pulling on the chains of the doorway, the water seemed to rise further. Nothing moved and he tried to speak, but again nothing in himself moved either and no sound appeared. He pulled harder, his hands biting into the metal, so much so that they sliced into his skin, red blood rolled down his palms and into the water. He pulled, and the handles groaned in protest._

 _"You really want to get in huh?" The criminal mastermind chuckled. "Well okay, if you insist."_

 _The doors gave way and swung open, and Sherlock was faced with nothing other than a giant wave of water. It swallowed him whole and knocked into backwards. He rolled below the surface, his head colliding with something hard with a crack and his vision blacked out._

 _"Sherlock, you really have to wake up now." A voice filtered into his brain. "I mean seriously, only a cock like you could make this harder than it has to be."_

 _"Seriously Sherlock. Wake up!"_

* * *

Barts hospital ICU

"No change?" Lestrade entered the ICU room to find John in the same position he had been in when he left.

"No." the doctor sighed, "it's been 36 hours and nothing. Most patients have begun full recovery by now."

Greg looked at the array of research papers and articles which John had spread across the bed, whilst waiting for the detective to come round the blogger had been reading up on the toxin and case reports of poisonings.

Two nights now Sherlock had been in ICU, and Greg was popping in on his way into the yard for work in the morning in the hope that Sherlock would be at least partly awake by now seeing as they had planned to wean him off his sedation last night. Greg was hoping he'd be able to give a short statement. He was surprised to find that no progress had been made at all from his initial admittance whatsoever. Their criminal was back at the yard in a cell, facing both a murder charge and an attempted murder charge. For a slight moment Greg considered if this would end in a double murder charge but it was too early to start panicking yet.

"They've stopped the sedation haven't they?" He confirmed.

"Yeah, he's had the full works. Drugs to encourage his respiratory muscles to work again. A cardiac scan and his heart is functioning normally. His pressures are good and his bloods don't show any kidney damage so far. An EEG of brain activity shows he's not in a coma. Just, well not awake either."

"Not breathing for himself?" Greg asked, noting that despite the lack of sedation the detective was still fully intubated and on the ventilator.

"Not properly, he seems to be trying but not breathing enough for them to take him off it so far."

"You know what he's like John, likes to keep us all guessing. He's probably just pretending for a touch a drama."

John smiled, "I wouldn't put it past him, but I don't think anyone can fake a coma Greg, it's not possible."

"But he's not in a coma, you said his brain function is normal?"

John rubbed his face in exasperation. "I don't know." He said.

"Here." Greg held out a cup of Costa coffee and a takeaway sandwich.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry." John replied, collecting up the articles from the bed, "perhaps there's a case in here where they used other drugs to bring the patient round."

Lestrade snatched the papers from his grasp and held out the drink.

"When was the last time you had a drink, ate something, took a piss. Seriously John, take five. I can watch him." Greg noted the look of exhaustion in the doctors eyes, long dark smudges beneath them and a shadow of unshaven hair on his chin.

John exhaled a long drawn out sigh. "5 minutes." He said. "I'll be 5 minutes, and if anything happens you call me right away. I'm not leaving this floor."

"Make it 15." Greg produced a chocolate bar from his pocket. "Get outside and get yourself from fresh air would you."

John didn't answer. He tottered out the door, his legs stiff from lack of moving and in dire need of the toilet. Greg was right, he needed a moment.

"Right you." Greg turned to the bed. "You'd best bloody stop this malarkey right now before I put you in a coma myself." He sat on the chair and frowned.

"None of this pretending anymore, are you trying to kill off your housemate, because that's what's going to happen if you don't bloody wake up, do you hear me?"

Lestrade exhaled and looked across the bed. At least the detectives complexion had improved from the night before, less ghostly, more his usually pasty white. His eyes were closed and lacking any sort of movement and his arms still limply resting at his sides, littered with lines and monitoring equipment. The rest of him was covered neatly by blankets up to his mid chest.

"You're lucky your brother is out of the country mate, though he is on his way back, so I would advise regaining consciousness before he arrives."

There was no response and for several minutes Greg only sat in silence. It felt odd talking to someone who didn't answer you, especially Sherlock Holmes. Who had an answer for everything, usually something along the lines of he was stupid and wrong and that the Met police were useless at their job. But at least he was talking then, silence right now, was not golden, it was dark and worrying.

Lestrade looked at his watch. He was meant to be in work 20 minutes ago but he didn't care. The team at the office seemed to be giving him the benefit of the doubt these last couple of days, and he was thankful.

"You're making me late for work." He said, trying to keep the conversation going, even if it was one sided. "Not that you care I know."

The ventilator clicked on and off, and the inspector saw the detective take a breath of his own between it, just as John had described.

"Come on mate, you've got to wake up soon. Even Donovan and Anderson are worried about you, you don't want me miss that." He joked. "They're just jealous sods you know, they don't hate you."

"Can't have you sleeping on the job, I've got a kidnapping case for you to look at that you'll love. Though I'm sure you'll solve it in about 60 seconds."

Nothing.

"You know John really needs you to wake up. I'm not sure he could take losing you."

Something caught Greg's eye on the sheets.

"Did you just...?" He stood. "Sherlock?"

The blanket moved a little as the detective flexed his foot slightly.

"Foot will do." Lestrade hit the call button on the bed, he considered texting John but it had been over 10 minutes, no doubt the doctor would be back any minute anyway.

Seconds later a nurse appeared in the doorway.

"He's just moved his foot, thought you might want to know, seeing as we're waiting for him to actually come round."

"Mr Holmes?" The nurse pulled Sherlock's hand into hers and bent over the detectives face, "Mr Holmes can you hear me, can you squeeze my hand?"

There was no response. She then gently pinched between his thumb and first finger and Sherlock's hand spasmed in response.

"Where is Doctor Watson?" The nurse looked up to Lestrade.

"I'm right here." John nearly pushed the inspector out the way to see what was happening. "Is he waking up?"

"He's responding to painful stimulus." She replied. "I'll go and get Doctor Matthews." She hurried off out the room.

"Sherlock." This time John near copied exactly what the nurse had just done, but as he called his friend's name the second time the detectives hand tried to weakly travel up towards his face and John grasped it gently. "I'm here, you need to wake up now."

Sherlock's breathing hitched up and overrode the ventilator, the machine alarmed and John quickly clicked it off. His friend's diaphragm was heaving to attempt breathing normally, but his oxygen saturation did not tank downwards and John was happy to see he seemed to be breathing enough to sustain himself.

"Easy. The doctors will be in very soon to extubate you. Can you open your eyes for me?" John gently pulled back on of the detectives lids to find a blank and listless stare still.

Doctor Matthews then entered the room. "I hear our famous detective is considering waking up?" He said.

"He seems to be ventilating well, though a little sporadically off the ventilator, and responding to my voice." John had clearly switched to doctors mode right now. "We should extubate."

"Agreed. Removal of the tube will help, but we need to remain mindful of the pneumonia and keep him oxygenated for a while." The doctor undid the tube holder and slowly deflated the cuff.

"Sherlock, do you think you can cough for me?" John asked clearly and calmly, "we need to remove the tube down your airway, it would make it easier if you can."

Both of the detectives arms raised up and the doctor gently pushed them back. "Easy."

The critical care consultant then decided that it would be unlikely that they would be able to wait for a cough and in one swift and gentle motion he removed the tube from the detectives airway.

There was no response from Sherlock, and quickly the doctor suctioned out the back of the detectives throat before placing an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.

"I was expecting more of a response than that." Doctor Matthews frowned, "they usually do something in response." He pulled back one eyelid and shone his pen torch into it humming. "I might page the neurology team to get them to have a look at him again." He stepped out to the door, pulling his pager from his pocket before moving slightly down the hallway outside.

Lestrade stood worriedly beside John. "This is not normal is it?" He asked.

"No, but not unheard of, it doesn't necessarily mean anything but I would have expected him to wake up by now." John rubbed his tired eyes.

"Sherlock, you really have to wake up now. I mean seriously, only a cock like you could make this harder than it has to be." John bent over him again.

"Seriously Sherlock. Wake up!"

The detectives eyes snapped open and his hands flew up to his mask tearing it from his face. And then, all hell broke loose.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** **Apologise to all for all delays in these chapters and updates. Life is busy, and stressful. I am becoming rather none verbal these past weeks. But certainly not on paper (or screen). Thank you all for reading!**

 **With many thanks to thegracefulbluecat/ceruleanfeline for her moral boost in gifting a wonderful piece of art to me for my storyline 'crashed' please check her works out on Ao3 or DeviantArt.**

* * *

Chapter 5

The detectives eyes snapped open and his hands flew up to his mask tearing it from his face. And then, all hell broke loose.

"Sherlock?" John tried, realising his friend was not completely lucid, "Sherlock look at me?" He said. But before he had even registered anything, several things happened.

The detective sat bold upright, his eyes wide and wild and his breathing hitched. Within the same movement the lead doctor tried to hold Sherlock down but the man was sent backward with such force he stumbled and nearly fell.

"Get away!" The detective snarled, yet his voice was so hoarse from intubation it was barely audible or legible.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade attempted. "Mate, you're okay, you're in hospital, you we're poisoned."

The detective screwed his eyes shut in pain bringing his hands up to his ears. It was then John realised that the monitors were actually alarming, he hurriedly switched them to mute and turned back to his friend a beat later. Sherlock was now half out the bed.

"Oh no you don't." John rushed to his aid but he was too late.

Sherlock's bare feet met the floor and his legs crumpled immediately above them, sending him down into a heap beside the bed, hard.

John cursed the fact that the rails had not been raised earlier, yet not five minutes ago his best friend was practically comatose, so he couldn't blame anyone. Typical for Sherlock to go from 0 to 100 in a matter of seconds.

"Sherlock?" John was on his knees beside the detective. "Can you hear me?"

Sherlock was now curled over where he was half sitting, half laying, his breathing fast and shallow and echoed with both crackles of raging pneumonia and groans of only what John suspected to be pain.

"Hey?" John gently touched his friend's shoulder, Sherlock flinched violently against it. John quickly pulled his hand back. "I'm sorry. Its okay, you're okay." He whispered. He should have known better than to attempt physical contact.

It was then he noted the crimson streaks both on the half fallen bed sheets still partly wrapped around the detective and on the floor beside him.

"Oh Jesus." Lestrade exclaimed. Suddenly noticing it too, yet keeping his distance for the time being. He knew crowding Sherlock was the last thing he needed to do.

"He's pulled his arterial line out." John said calmly. Quickly grasping his friend's wrist to stem the flow of blood from the cannula site. But this time Sherlock's reaction was even more extreme.

He lashed out violently, his bleeding wrist pulling back from Johns grasp. His other hand weakly attempting a strike towards his friend. A sound which could only resemble a animalistic growl left the detectives arid throat and his eyes darted madly around the room.

"It's alright."

John bit his cheek hard in concern. Sherlock's lips were a terrible shade of blue, he was clearly not oxygenating adequately. Either due to his chest infection or his worsening hyperventilating or the fact that his diaphragm might still not be quite working to full capacity John was not sure, but llikely a combination of all three.

"If you don't slow your breathing down and get some oxygen then your going to pass out." He said slowly. "Do you understand?"

Nothing.

Sherlock's eyes were tracking something across the room, something only he seemed to be able to see. He closed his eyes gritted his teeth and grasped the skin on his forearm in a claw like hand, squeezing hard. It was as if he was trying to wake himself up from a dream.

"Sherlock?" John tried again. "It's okay, will you look at me? Can you hear me?"

Nothing but hyperventilating returned his calls.

"Sherlock?"

The detective then only made a slight humming noise, grasping his forearm skin tighter and curling his other hand into a tight fist. John was happy that although still sluggishly bleeding the cannula site was less dramatically haemorrhaging, it would stop eventually but a bit of fluids might not go amiss to help with the loss.

"We need to get him some sedation." The ICU Doctor behind John said.

"Not yet." The blogger held his hand out.

"He's cynotic Doctor Watson."

"I am aware of that." John held his tongue, wanting to curse. "Just give me a minute, I don't think this is solved with drugs right now, I think drugs have caused this."

What John didn't see was behind him Lestrade nodding in agreement.

"Greg, would you do me a favour?" The blogger did not take his eyes off his friend.

"Anything."

"Go to Baker Street. I need you to collect some things for me."

"Do you have a list?"

The inspector silently handed John his note pad and the doctor jotted down a couple of items without so much as taking an eye off his patient. Before another word was spoken the inspector was off in a swift exit.

"Doctor Watson." the lead doctor said authoritatively, "I do believe you are blocking my patient from receiving vital care."

"I don't think you understand." John replied as calmly as his agitated voice would allow. "Any physical contact is only going to heighten his hyperaesthesia, any raised voices, lights, anything and he's going to take a turn again, we need to allow him to wake up slowly and controlled."

"Yes we tried that." Doctor Matthews snapped back, "and here we are."

"Then what do you suggest?" The blogger wanted to shout.

"We restart the infusion, get him settled and try again later at waking him."

"When it took over 12 hours for him to come round, I don't think so." John was losing his patience. "I am his healthcare power of attorney, what I say goes."

For a moment there was a pause of silence between them, and nothing could be heard except Sherlock's terribly laboured and crackly breathing.

"Then what's the plan Doctor Watson." The lead consultant finally relented. "Because I am concerned by your patients level of oxygenation."

"As am I." John noted his best friend's nail beds were beginning to tinge an alarming shade of blue too. "We need to move him back into the bed."

"And how are you supposing to do so?"

"Let me try first, I may need a hand if he allows it. If it goes south then we resort to plan B, your plan."

"Right." The senior doctor turned to one of the team. "Get me some propofol and an RSI kit ready for reintubation."

"Sherlock." John was already trying to gain his friend's attention once again but the detective was either not listening or could not hear John's calls.

His eyes were shut tight, so much so that his skin was creased dramatically around them and his brows furrowed in a solid set depression. With each passing breath he seemed to weaken, struggling to hold his trembling frame up in his half reclining position.

"Sherlock I know your in there somewhere, and I know this is all a lot to take in but you need to listen to me." John said quickly and precisely. "I need to get you up and back onto the bed, and now. If I leave you here another minute your going to pass out from lack of oxygen. I need you to help me get you back into bed okay."

There was no acknowledgement, but his friends neck extended, his mouth gaped to try and draw in more air and his chest heaved dramatically in a wheeze. A near sure sign of impending respiratory arrest.

"Right that's it." John pulled himself to his feet, crouched low and placed one hand under his friend's already bent knees and one under his upper back and began to lift him.

Sherlock struggled violently for all but two seconds before going completely limp in his friend's grasp.

"Shit."

The team around John jumped into action, helping him up with the detective, lowering his prone form quickly but gently back onto the bed.

"He's apnoeic." Doctor Matthews was already examining Sherlock as John stepped back from the exertion of lifting him. "I need the tubing kit please."

"How's his pulse Doctor Watson?" The senior Doctor did not look up from his task of securing Sherlock's airway again.

"Strong." John wasn't sure if he was relieved or not to feel a strong though elevated pulse beneath his fingers. The nurses and medics around him where quickly reconnecting monitors and wires and stemming the bleeding from the cannula site.

"Blood pressures high." John read the monitor. "168 over 112." He parroted.

"No surprise considering." Doctor Matthews inflated the cuff on the endotracheal tube and provided a breath for the detective.

The blogger ripped his gaze away from Sherlock's half lidded unseeing eyes and took a long and steady breath himself to regain his control.

"Lets take a rain check" The consultant said. "Continue the propofol infusion please." He instructed the assistant. "Low dose and onto the ventilator for the next hour and then we will decide where to go from there."

The nurse nodded, the syringe driver beeped its starting infusion and began to quietly whir.

"Take a break doctor. You look like you need it. His airway is secure and he's unconscious."

For once John actually took the advice. With a quick survey of his flat mates vitals he charged from the room and towards the main entrance of the hospital at double speed. His own breath hitched and panicked and a roil of worry knotting his stomach, he needed some air.

Upon reaching the foyer and the coffee shop the doctor ordered the largest and strongest cup of coffee he could and strode out the automatic doors and into the London hum and the early morning sunshine.

The air was fresh and cool on his skin and seemed to wake him up a little. He downed several mouthfuls of the black coffee and grimaced at its heat and bitter taste.

"Fuck" he shouted. In one swift turn he booted the litter bin beside him, regretting it instantly when it loudly chimed and echoed across the courtyard. The small gathering of people around him all stopped and stared.

"Sorry." He cheerily attempted an apology. And they began to continue about their business.

"Bad night?" An elderly man who was standing close by the doctor smiled sadly. He was clearly a patient, clad in a hospital issue dressing gown and clinging to a drip stand, a smoking cigarette in the other hand. John was always amazed by the patients who insisted upon leaving the building to smoke, even those suffering from lung cancer did so in earnest. This old man had clearly smoked his entire life judging by the state of his nicotine stained fingers and teeth.

"You could say that." The doctor finally answered.

The old man offered his box of cigarettes out.

John was about to politely refuse but instead he pulled one from the packet and lit it, coughing instantly as he drew in the smoke.

"Ah, not a smoker." The gentlemen teased. "Must be a bad night."

"Thank you." The Doctor returned the box. "And no, not a smoker." He added.

John had never smoked. Not something which he was ever attracted to, even as a teenage boy surrounded by his peers doing so. Perhaps it was down to his alcoholic father who would smoke constantly at home, flicking ash over his dinner whilst drunkenly bellowing. He was often made fun of within the army, as many of the crew would smoke. Just another way to deal with the horrors of war he supposed.

He took another lungful and gagged again. How people found this pleasurable he would never know. He took a swig of coffee, tasting the tobacco on his tongue.

A pause.

Okay, now this made more sense. He felt himself relax just a little before taking another long drawn inhale from the cigarette, perhaps Sherlock was onto something here. What was it, 240 types of tobacco?

"243, Doctor Watson."

"What?" John looked up and into the stern face of Mycroft Holmes.

"243 types of tobacco ash Doctor." He said. "Care if I join you?"

"I don't smoke." He blurted with a whirl of misty smoke surrounding him.

"Yes, that stick in your hand is nothing but illusion." Mycroft pulled one of his own cigarettes out and lit it. "Anyone who has to deal with Sherlock Holmes smokes Doctor Watson, best get used to it."

John said nothing, taking anything long drink from his cardboard cup.

"How is my brother?" The older Holmes asked.

"Alive." Was all John could muster.

"I have seen the CCTV footage from the lift. Your heroic efforts have not gone unnoticed." Mycroft paused. "Seems my brother is lucky to have you around in a tight spot."

"Is that a thank you?" The doctor smirked.

"Consider it so." He answered. "You will be rewarded generously for your heroism."

"I didn't do it for a reward Mycroft." John snapped, pulling a long drag from his fag, this time without any throat irritation.

"I didn't say you did." The bureaucrat replied. "I merely wish to thank you."

John only fake laughed in response, turning away from the man and taking a couple of steps before drinking again.

"My brother loves you John."

The doctor choked on his coffee, some of it spilling from his nose for added drama. "What!" He turned back.

"Not in a sexual way." Mycroft's eyebrow rose with a shred of amusement. "My dear little brother knows little about... that." He flapped his hand and took a lung full of smoke down. "He loves in the closest capacity Sherlock Holmes possibly can do."

"Well that's good to know." John's face reddened and he turned awkwardly away.

"He does not make friends lightly." The Holmes continued. "You are undoubtedly the best thing that has happened to my brother."

John finished his coffee and discarded the cup in the bin. "Have you been drinking?" He joked.

"I had a couple of whiskeys on the plane back from Brussels. Sorry I wasn't here sooner, a difficult meeting I had to attended."

"More important than your brothers imminent death." John stamped out the cigarette with his foot.

"He was in the best possible hands." Mycroft said. "Cannot think of a better doctor to be his power of attorney."

"Just two whiskeys?" John's eyebrows rose, and he turned towards the hospital entrance.

"Perhaps Anthea spiked my tea." The bureaucrat mused. He stepped on his own half finished cigarette and followed the doctor back inside.

When the pair of them made it back to Sherlock's ICU room it was much calmer than it had been only 20 minutes prior. The respirator was gently clicking with each breath and the ECG steady and rhythmical.

John quickly brought Mycroft up to speed, leaving no part of the story out and explaining the level of dysphoria the detective had experienced upon waking and the time it had taken for him to regain consciousness initially.

"Is there a chance that his brain was... damaged somehow, during the time in the lift." Mycroft sat beside the bed and surveyed his brothers form.

"There is always a chance." John frowned, "but it isn't like he was without oxygen the whole time, like he had drowned and there a delay between ceasing to breath and rescue breaths."

"Hmm." The older Holmes hummed.

"His awaking was not the norm, but not what I would expect from someone with hypoxic brain damage either."

"My brother is never the norm John, as you very well know."

"You can say that again." John sat down heavily opposite.

"I believe though as you suggest we should attempt waking him again once the Inspector has returned." Mycroft hung his umbrella on the back of the chair and pulled of his jacket off expecting a wait.

John noted that the detectives wrist had been heavily dressed, he suspected there was more than a little bruise underneath, he shook his head lightly in disapproval of his friend's actions.

Near half an hour later Greg appeared in the doorway, a large bag in toe.

John went to fetch the consultant doctor, to discuss waking his friend up again. But this time with some very strict rules in place.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Dear fellow Sherlockians, fiction readers and writers. Much love to you all. Hope wherever you are in the world you are doing okay in this current global crisis! I'm still working as i have to despite my country (UK) being in lockdown, so can't have loads of extra time to write fiction. However i'm determined to get some done.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

Chapter 6

The ICU doctor stood in the corner of the room with his arms folded across his chest. He was not best pleased with his patient's current condition, but with his hands tied he did as he was told, standing by in the corner of the darkened room.

All lights had been either turned off or dimmed, so much so that the figures in the room could barely see one another faces. The three men sad quietly around the prone figure in the hospital bed.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" the detective inspector spoke in hushed tones.

"It's the best attempt we have at waking my brother as calmly as possible." Mycroft gently pulled the afghan blanket up the bed almost reaching his brothers chin. "surrounding him with familiar people and things is the best way to ensure he remains calm."

"Ready?" John asked as he fiddled with the syringe driver. He had already turned the infusion down as low as he dare but now was time to turn it off once again. He had turned every alarm system off the monitors to avoid any excess noise.

He looked to the doctor in the corner. "Not a sound okay, and please don't aid us unless I ask you." John had his soldier tone on, and the consultant seemed to almost straighten up to his command and bowed his head in reply.

The doctor sat quietly next to his best friend. "Please Sherlock, try to be calm this time." He wasn't sure if he was wishing to himself or trying to speak to his friends subconscious.

To a passer by anyone would have thought the room was full of mourning relatives at the deathbed of a loved one. Lestrade had done well, he had retrieved exactly what John needed. Sherlocks favourite skull was proudly placed on the bedside table as to be in view of him as he woke. Mrs Hudson's afghan throw was pulled up onto him and the detective's friends had draped him in his much loved dressing gown. His pillow had been changed for his own linen and a collection of case files and books had been added to the decoration amongst other things. The lights were dim, and the door to the ICU corridor and busy nurse's station was closed to reduce any unwanted noise.

All they could do now, was wait.

However, what the three men thought was going be a long wait turned out to be less than half an hour. John suspected this was down to the detectives earlier outburst clearing much of the drugs from his system from the adrenalin rush.

The first signs of awaking were Sherlocks hands began to tremor. John chose to ignore this for now and concentrated on the monitors and readings. The detective was oxygenating well and he tentatively turned the respirator down and finally off after a good 15 minutes of constant monitoring. He was happy his friend was breathing ok for himself now, albeit a little laboured but no more than to be expected right now.

"Right, all you need to do is wake up and I can get that tube out. John whispered and very gently leant over his friend, carefully peeling an eyelid back.

Sherlocks unbandaged hand shot up, clasping onto Johns in an iron grasp. His eyes shot open suddenly.

"Easy." The doctors heart fluttered wildly in his chest in momentary panic, but he swallowed it back. No point in losing it now, not what his best friend needed.

"John?" Lestrade stood in worry, the doctor flagged him back down to his seat.

"Sherlock." John stared deeply into his friend's eyes, trying hard to work out his level of consciousness. "You're ok, you've been unwell but you're waking up now. You can't speak yet alright, but if you understand me blink twice for me?"

"Doctor Watson you need to extubate him." The ICU doctor spoke.

"Not yet."

John looked to the monitors, still oxygenating well, pulse up slightly but okay, blood pressures holding.

"Sherlock you've got to wake up. We've got some case files to run past you. Lestrade's stumped." The blogger smirked in a playfully. "You know him, can't find his police car let alone the suspect for a case."

Lestrade held his tongue at a retort.

Nothing.

The detectives face did not change, his eyes stayed staring into the doctors and he didn't blink.

John very gently prized his best friends hand from his own, lowering it down to the bed. He bit his lip.

"Mycroft?" he turned back to the bureaucrat.

The man tilted his head in question.

"I need to know how awake he is?" John motioned to the prone detective and Mycroft joined him momentarily.

"Brother dear." He asked. "Sherlock, Mummy isn't very happy with you being like this. It might be wise you give us an indication you can hear us."

Still nothing.

Mycroft thinned his lips and sat back down. "Your guess is a good as mine John." He sighed loudly.

The bloggers nerves were wavering, he slowly sat back down too, not taking his eyes off his friend. On one hand if he extubated early it would reduce the risk of the man panicking, but take out too early and he would be less able to assist with his friends breathing should be struggle again. A catch 22 scenario.

"We wait." John sat awkwardly on the edge of his seat, he rested two fingers on his friends wrist, keeping the steady thrum of blood flow feeling beneath them, grounding him to the fact his friend was actually alive.

The silence ensued for a further 15 minutes. Until Johns frayed anxiety could take it no more. The thought of his friend fully conscious and still tubed made his own throat swell in response. Very gently he massaged around the detective's throat in an attempt at eliciting a reflex. When finally, Sherlock began to cough and gag.

"It's alright." The blogger didn't hear his own voice shake slightly as he hastily undid the ties and swiftly but gently removed the breathing tube in one motion.

After a couple of wet hacking coughs, Sherlocks wheezing breath was all that could be heard, and John rapidly fixed a oxygen mask over his friends mouth and nose just as the detectives eyes slid closed again.

The doctor only frowned in concern. He sat back into his seat a little too heavily.

"I was expecting a bit more of a reaction than that." He ran a hand over his face in exasperation and concern. "Considering how frantic he was last time?"

"Perhaps your room redecoration has helped more than you realise it Doctor Watson." Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps." I bloody hope so, thought John, his worry making his head pound all that bit more. Rubbing his temples he attempted to ease their pain, but it wasn't working.

"Well I need to attend a couple of meetings." The older Holmes stood, taking a look at his brother again. "You will keep me informed won't you?"

The blogger nodded, but said no more as the man left. The consultant doctor let soon after too, happy that the situation was under control.

Once alone Lestrade turned to John near straight away. "Don't you think you should go home for a sleep and a shower?" he asked kindly.

"You don't waste time do you?" John replied, running a hand through his unruly hair. He admitted his face was course with unshaven stubble and he was exhausted. A shower would have been lovely, a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson and a nap on the sofa a 221B sounded like bliss.

"No." was all he said, finally.

"Come on mate?" the inspector pleaded. "You can't keep this up, you're going to need all your strength to look after him. Because lets face it, he won't allow himself to stay in here a moment longer once he's up and talking."

"I can't leave him yet Greg, I don't even know if he's fully awake yet. I'm not sure he even knows who he is yet, let alone us, or what's happening. Another outburst like earlier and I don't know how he'll recover. If he'll recover."

"Don't be so morbid John, he's made it this far hasn't he" the inspector smiled sadly. "They say the poison should be almost out his system by now right?"

"If he wakes I need to be here to help him, if he is lucid he's going to need a familiar face, no strangers looking after him. You must understand that by now."

"I do." Greg bowed his head.

"Good." John ended the discussion, turning once again to look at the screens.

"Listen mate, I'll be back in half an hour." The inspector stood quickly. He squeezed the doctor's shoulder and left before John had a chance to even ask him where he was heading.

He never got a chance after either, because by the time Lestrade had returned, his hands full of a large takeaway pizza, John was fast asleep. The bloggers chin was resting peacefully on his chest and he was out for the count. Sherlock seemed to be the same still, also seemingly asleep. Lestrade looked at the monitors, although he knew not what he was looking at they seemed happy, no flashing or silent alarms and all numbers looked to be in pleasant colours. The inspector left the pizza on the chair beside the doctor. He would return later. Right now a man with the charge of attempted murder was sitting in a cell back at the station, and Lestrade was about read to give him more than a piece of his mind.

* * *

When John finally woke hours later, it was getting towards evening. His mind had little idea of the time, the dull lighting of the room made it feel like the middle of the night.

The doctor blinked several times and rubbed his tired eyes before spotting the pizza. His groaning stomach responding to its presence immediately.

"Sherl…" he stretched but stopped midway when he was met by piercing blue eyes staring at him.

"You're awake!" he exclaimed. "Shit, how long have you been awake?" he stood, checking the monitors and seeing no deterioration in vitals, except oxygenation levels which seemed to be reduced slightly. He noted Sherlocks labouring breaths, he was wheezing audibly even through the mask, which was surprisingly still on his face. By now the detective had usually ripped the thing from his mouth and in most cases it would be hissing to itself halfway across the room.

"You should have woken me." John quickly increased the oxygen flow.

"How are you feeling?" The doctor frowned, slowly raising the bed to aid his friends breathing. "Think you can cough for me, you probably need to get some of that fluid off your chest." John pulled out his stethoscope and gently pulled back the covers, taking a listen to the detective's lungs. His friend didn't reply or react, his eyes only tracked the doctor's movements.

"You okay?" a tight icy grip began to squeeze the doctor's stomach with worry. Why was he not talking. By now an acid reply was inevitable.

Silence.

"Do you remember what happened?" he asked again.

"Sherlock?"

John bent over him this time, his pulse rushing in his ears as the worry heightened even further, the ice turning his stomach to stone. He knew his friend hated being bent over but his current lack of retorts of even an exasperated sigh was more than a concern. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Can you talk? Your breathing isn't so bad you can't speak?"

Nothing. The detectives face didn't even change in any sort of emotional or cognitive response.

"Nope." He said, "you're scaring me now." He felt his friend's pulse on his neck. Steady. He even checked the detective's pupillary light reflex by shining a pen torch into his eyes, something his friend always hated when he had suffered head injuries, but John would insist upon. Normal response but not a word.

"Can you blink if you can hear me?" He asked again, "or raise a hand?"

Sherlock looked blankly back at him.

John collapsed back in his chair. "Shit!" He placed his head in his hands and inhaled a long deep breath in an attempt to calm himself.

"Just say something would you." He looked up. Sherlock was now gazing listlessly at the ceiling. "Anything?" He tried. "You can tell me to bugger off, just a word. Please Sherlock?" His voice now sounded somewhat desperate.

He stood angrily. "Stop playing fucking mind games you twat. Just fucking talk!"

John grabbed his friend's shoulders to shake him and finally a noise escaped the detectives throat. But it wasn't any comprehensible word, it was a deep and stifled cry of agony. A noise which pierced straight through Johns chest, pushing every last shred of air from it.

"Jesus Christ." The doctor let go. "Fuck. I'm so sorry!" he turned, and stifled his own sob with a hand over his mouth before rushing from the room, near colliding with Greg as he rounded on the corridor.

"John!" Lestrade was nearly bowled over by the shorter man as he rushed into him and then down the corridor. "John, what is it?"

The inspector peered around the door momentarily, the monitors on Sherlock still running with signs of life. And felt a small wash of relief before racing after the doctor.

By the time he caught up with him John was in the stairwell, he was leaning over the railing and peering through the long endless windows and out to the London streets below. His breath was heavy and slow but deliberately so.

"John?" the inspector asked again. "What is it?"

The blogger turned, running a hand over his face and revealing his reddened, both exhausted and emotional eyes.

"We have a problem."


End file.
